


All In

by Barkour



Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Comedy, F/F, Vaginal Fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 22:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3585819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cheryl's pushy. Pam pushes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All In

**Author's Note:**

> As I haven't actually watched season six yet, this is: AU. Spoilers for the end of season five. Canon-typical weirdness, and a strong warning for Cheryl's sexual death fantasies.

“All right, listen up,” said Miz Archer, “because I don’t want to have to repeat myself to you hooligans—”

Carla stuck her hand up and waved it madly, first left to right then front to back then a-a-all the way around the world. “Oh! Oh! Miz Archer! I’m sorry, could you say that again, I wasn’t listening?”

Briefly, too briefly, Miz Archer pressed the back of a hand to her eyes. Do it, Corona thought, do it, c’mon, do it! The moment passed. Malory did not collapse to the ground, foaming at the mouth. Son of a bitch!

“As I was saying—”

“Ugh, but I still don’t know what you were saying—”

“Give it a rest, Cheryl!”

“It’s Camilla!” she shrieked at Lana. 

“It’s can’t shut my damn cram-hole!”

The horrible little fat monster Mister Archer was holding so tenderly to his shoulder gurgled.

Mister Archer laughed and patted the milk-guzzler on the back and said, “Aw, look—she knows your shriek, Lana. Look, look—okay, yell something else now.”

“Will everyone just shut the hell up!” yelled Malory.

“Well, now you scared her,” said Mister Archer. 

“She’s not scared, Archer,” said Lana, “she just has gas,” and she brushed her fingers along the probably-a-changeling-left-by-wicked-fairies’ sloping shoulders. Her thumb brushed Mister Archer’s wrist. They smiled at each other. 

Watch your back, Carmen mouthed at the baby. The baby fussed up her wrinkly old man face; her nose creased; her lips twisted. She burped.

“Did you see that!” said Chastity. “The little troll assaulted me!”

“The little _what_?” asked Lana.

“That is my grandchild,” said Malory, “and your eventual boss. Racist!”

“What, seriously, from you?” asked Mister Archer.

“God!” said Claire, “all babies are trolls! Don’t any of you care? Don’t any of you notice? Horrible parasites, suckling off the teat of our ignorance—”

A heavy hand gripped her shoulder. “All right, settle down,” said Pam, “drink your vodka. There’s a good girl.”

She snatched the offered mug (Strikeforce Champion 2011) and muttered into it, “You’re not my supervisor.” Oh, vodka, she thought; oh, Pam. Beautiful, stupid Pam. One day, I’ll burn it all down, and I’ll carry you out of the ashes in my slender, delicate arms and lay you down amidst the rubble and gaze into your beautiful blue eyes while you yell _what have you done!_ and I’ll whisper, I did it for you, Pam, and you’ll lock your sub-Lana-esque meaty hands around my throat, and—

“Actually,” said Miz Archer, interrupting, “before I was so rudely interrupted—”

“I hate rude people,” said Cynthia. She thought maybe that would do it, but the old goat was probably immortal. Hate, as she looked about the office at all her coworkers, suffused her more sweetly than any hard liquor. She took another swig of the vodka anyway.

*

“So now you’re my supervisor,” she said to Pam.

“Looks like it,” Pam agreed. 

“This is so stupid!” said Ciara. “I’m not supposed to have a supervisor!”

Pam shrugged and set her ass on Claudia’s desk, stuck her legs out in front of her and crossed them at the calves. That tight pencil skirt of hers didn’t let her do much else. Thighs thick enough she could probably snap Caleigh in half with them. Fiddling, Caitriona stuck a pencil in her mouth and chewed.

“Well, hey, I don’t like it either,” said Pam, “having to look after you. You damn psycho. Now if you snap and kill someone, I have to write the report.”

“You mean if I snap and kill someone _again_ ,” said Carella.

“How many people have you killed, crazy?”

“You mean how many people have I killed _again_.”

“You fighting a lot of zombies out there?” asked Pam. “Zombies a big part of your life?”

“Don’t get me started,” said Casper.

“It’s hard not to,” Pam said, wedging her butt more comfortably on the desk, “you get yourself going.”

“Look at them,” said Christopher, watching Lana and Mister Archer at the elevator, “just walking around with that baby like it’s not a freak of nature.”

“Jesus!” said Pam. “You’d think they’d at least wait for the elevator doors to open before boning down.”

Wistfully Creation asked, “How come you never throw me over your shoulder like that anymore?” as Mister Archer handed off the baby to Ray and Lana, Archer hefted to her shoulder, carried him onto the elevator. The romantic stylings of Kanye as interpreted by Kenny G filtered out of the lift; then the doors closed.

“Does anyone here know how to change a diaper?” Ray asked loudly.

Cyril, the bitter hag, wandered by. “Don’t you?”

“Believe it or not,” said Ray, “it hasn’t come up.”

“Well, give her to me.”

“Like hell, Bitter Brian,” Ray said, tucking Abbie Jean snugly to his chest, “you’ll probably put her in a Lana wig and cry. Mess the kid up for life.”

“So you really don’t ever want to have kids?” Pam asked Custard.

“God, no,” she said. “I want my uterus destroyed. You didn’t answer my question, by the way.”

“What question was that?”

“Why don’t you ever haul me up the stairs to lift me up to all the gods in Olympus and declare me your rightful bride by the ancient laws of property seizure?”

Pam laughed. “Because I’m not on drugs.”

“Well, get back on them!”

“God, I wish,” said Pam. “Anyway, I’m done with the whole hatefuck thing. I want to make it special.”

“Ugggggh, that’s so stupid,” said Catori, “the whole point of the hatefuck is that you hate them _especially_.”

“It’s unhealthy.”

“You know what’s unhealthy?” asked Cathlin. “This stupid office!”

“If you hate it so much,” Cyril grumbled, “why don’t you leave?”

“Shut up, Cyril, you never satisfied me!”

“Haha, damn!” said Pam. “Slam dunked on him!”

Cyril slammed the door to his office shut. The glass rattled. Pam sighed.

“That’s gonna bite me in the ass during puppet talk later.”

“You know what would be super hot?” asked Cyriletta, the superior Cyril. “If you made me talk like a puppet.”

Pam glanced over at her, with her mascara-caked eyelashes at half-mast and her lips (god! Who used pastels?) pursed.

“What are you babbling about, crazycakes?” 

She sounded fond, almost, which was—yeuch—disgusting. Something a little bubbly popped inside Chandler's chest; she hoped it was heart burn, or, oh, a demon that would give her supernatural control over fire, like in Captain Planet.

“I’m talking about you abusing your authority as my supervisor,” said Christina, “and just wrecking my vagina.”

“Okay, sure,” said Pam, “and lose my job,” but she eyed her.

“Who am I gonna tell?” asked Colette. “My supervisor?”

*

“You want me to at least cut my nails first?”

“No,” said Cyrene, scooching back on Krieger’s dissection table. “I like the sting. It makes me feel like, a squirrel’s trying to get out of there but it can’t so it slowly suffocates.”

Pam paused, hands on her belt. “If I feel a rodent up there—”

“I said ‘like’! Learn grammar, Pam!”

“Okay, I’ve read your reports,” said Pam, “and they’re on a first grade level, max. But very creative.”

Groaning, Cleva let her head fall back; all the better to show off the goods.

“Shut up and ravish me already, Agatha Christie!”

“Geez! All right!” said Pam, “hold on to your pussy!” and she grabbed Clodovea’s blouse, a fist at each breast, and _ripped_.

“Yes!” Clover screamed. “Animal! Fuck that blouse!”

“Jesus, were those diamond buttons?” Pam asked. “Is this silk?”

“Finish it!”

“How much did this blouse cost?” Pam tore it the rest of the way; diamonds scattered across the floor, mingling with Krieger’s Cup Noodles trash and the dead mice he refused to say good-bye to.

“Six thousand.”

Pam’s lips slowly parted. “Six _thousand_?”

Coco lounged, thrusting her breasts high. “My panties are made with real cheetah skin.”

“You rich bitch,” said Pam, “you said you couldn’t help me pay off my car because Interpol froze your assets.” She reached up Coahoma’s rucked skirt and grabbed at the fur.

“Use that,” she said breathily, “punish me. I’m a reckless spender, Pam!” The cheetah skin joined the mice and ramen.

Bending before her, Pam stopped with her hand at Clarissa’s pussy. Her eyebrow arched; incredulous, Pam laughed. 

“It’s like a god damn flood down here.”

“Fuck me, Noah,” said Caylee.

“You’re sure you wanna do this?” Pam asked again. Her thumb was coarse and light upon Camry’s folds, waiting, as Pam waited, which was so stupid, like she thought Coral couldn’t take a beating?

“I took Cyril’s dick,” she told Pam.

“My arm’s bigger than Cyril’s dick,” said Pam, then her thumb jerked, slipping through slick as Carol moaned. “Did you just come? I told you to hold on!” Pam said, and she pushed the first two fingers in deep.

“Yes! More!” said Channing, “now, before I adjust!”

“You aren’t shitting around,” said Pam, impressed. She had that dopey look on her face, eyebrows still arched and her mouth half-curled at one corner, rounding her cheek. I hate you, thought Cheryl dearly; then Pam shoved a third finger in, the stretch agonizing as the nail slipped through then the first knuckle then—as Cheryl yowled and kicked her feet and wriggled at the feel of each knob pushing through and into her—the second.

“Thumb!” yelled Cheryl. “Thumb! Go gold or go home, skank!”

“You’re the one on the table, ya loud-mouthed skank,” said Pam, lookin’ a little rosy in the cheeks. In direct opposition to Cheryl’s command she slipped her little finger in before she fit in her thumb. 

“Yes!” said Cheryl, “yes! Oh, god! Put the thumb in! Choke my pussy!”

“I’m working on it, just hold on!”

“You’d be working harder if you weren’t jacking yourself off!” Like she’d missed Pam’s other throttling hand diving down Pam’s skirt; no wonder she’d shucked the belt earlier. And here Cheryl had thought Pam might show off some of that underground dirty fighting on Cheryl. “Why are you so selfish, Pam!”

“You remember,” Pam panted, “that I’m your supervisor now, right? I can suspend you for being such a pain in the ass.” She spread her fingers inside Cheryl—Cheryl’s eyes crossed and she groaned all the way from her toes, it felt, damn, she’d _known_ Pam’s big-ass hand would feel so good in Cheryl, wreck her the fuck _up_ —and yes, yes, god, yes, her thumb! 

“Suspend me in your sex dungeonnnnnnn,” Cheryl wailed.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Pam pressed her face to Cheryl’s knee. Her skin was warm, flushed. Cheryl thought lovingly how Pam would like just like that at the end, so red, a tomato. A beautiful, alive tomato, blossoming in the molten aftermath of the world.

“Oh, Pam,” said Cheryl, “even after I kill all the rest of these assholes, I’ll keep you safe.”

Pam tipped her head up, her cheek still warm against Cheryl’s knee. “Why do you say this freaky shit?” she demanded, but her teeth caught again on her lip, and she was looking at Cheryl, oh, yes, she _saw_ Cheryl.

“Because I hate you,” Cheryl moaned, “I really, really hate you—I hate you sooooooo much, Pam, oh, god, do that again!”

“What?” asked Pam. “This?” She curled her fingers again.

Cheryl screamed, and Pam—horrible Pam, wonderful Pam—was laughing again, so very pleased.

The door opened. “Krieger—Jesus God!” said Miz Archer. “What the hell are you two doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Pam asked. 

“It looks like you elbow deep in Cheryl Tunt’s cunt,” said Miz Archer.

“This isn’t for you, Malory!” Cheryl shrieked. 

“Well, where the hell is Krieger?” Miz Archer shrieked right back.

“Out back fiddling around with the hobos,” said Pam, “I don’t know.”

Miz Archer rolled her eyes to the skies, like god even cared about Malory. “Useless. Surrounded by sexual perverts—” The door slammed behind her.

“Why doesn’t Krieger have a lock on his door?” wondered Pam.

“I don’t know, why _aren’t_ you elbow-deep in me?” wondered Cheryl.

Pam looked intrigued, in as much as Pam could ever look intrigued.

“You think it can even fit up there?”

“Pam,” said Cheryl, “I want my uterus to look like a squirrel after it’s gone through a blender.”

“Stop talking about squirrels while I’m fisting you!” said Pam.

“I will never stop talking about squirrels!” said Cheryl.

“Why am I even doing this?” asked Pam as she rolled her wrist against the stretched out, oh so very taut ring of Cheryl’s entrance.

If Pam knocked her up, Cheryl thought, she wouldn’t even drown the little monster. She’d set it free in the woods, to grow powerful and feral, and one day return to the world to wreak its disgusting troll-y vengeance.

“Because you _hate_ me,” Cheryl sighed rapturously, and she let it wash over her sweet and strong and cruel. _So_ much better than whatever Lana and Archer were doing.

“Next time,” Cheryl moaned, as Pam pushed agonizingly slowly into her, “let’s do this on Cyril’s desk.”

“God damn,” said Pam, “you _are_ evil,” but she never said no. Not to Cheryl.


End file.
